slanted light, and the cold air that all summer hid in the shadows by the mossy garden wall is starting to explore the sun-pockets–aware of the shortening days, the growing moonlit nights.
the smell of coffee, and I’m writing a letter to an old lover with a great round stirring belly. In my mind she is drenched in sepia-toned light, in a window above the leaf-scuttling Montreal autumn-time.
The last time I imagined her, the image was in full color and motion; I am frightened that soon all remaining will be a faded and smudged photograph in a dusty corner of my mind.
outside, an orange leaf slowly drifts to the roadway to dance between the cars and bicycles.
a million life-paths are winding and knitting all around and through me, every one as vast and complicated as the swollen sea.
exhilarating, volatile, and full of grace, all at once.